Chapter 6: The Things She Never Chose
775 Words
The villa was quiet again.
But this time, it didn’t feel heavy.
After Sergio’s confession the night before, something had shifted. Not just in the air — but between them. It wasn’t romance, not yet. But it was real. Solid. Like the fragile beginning of trust taking root in unexpected soil.
Candice sat at the old grand piano in the living room, her fingers tracing the keys but never playing. She wasn’t sure why she was there — maybe it was the stillness of the house, or the way her thoughts had been crowding in since Sergio spoke his truth.
He entered quietly from the hallway, holding two mugs of coffee.
“You don’t strike me as the piano type,” he said, handing one to her.
She took it, grateful. “I’m not. It’s mostly for show. My father keeps it tuned because it ‘makes the room look more cultured.’”
Sergio sat on the arm of a nearby chair. “Ever tried learning?”
She shook her head. “No. I was always too busy rehearsing for ballet, or filming, or memorizing lines.”
He raised a brow. “Sounds exhausting.”
Candice gave a soft laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It is.”
Silence stretched between them again, gentle this time.
Then she set the mug down and spoke — not looking at him, but at her own hands.
“You know, when I was a little girl, I used to love drawing. Sketching on napkins, on walls, on the backs of scripts. But my mom… she saw me spin once in the living room and decided I had the grace to be a ballerina. So that was it. My fate, chosen before I even knew how to say no.”
Sergio said nothing. He listened.
“I trained every day. I hated the blisters, the pressure, the teachers who only saw what I lacked. But I smiled. I always smiled, because it made her proud.”
She looked at him now, her voice quieter.
“Then came the acting. That was my father’s idea. He said I had the face, the timing, the marketability. And I was already used to performing, so... why not? One commercial, one film, and suddenly I was the golden child of the entertainment world.”
“You never had a choice,” Sergio said, not as a question — but as a truth.
Candice nodded. “And now I’m stuck in this life that everyone envies — but I don’t even know if it’s mine.”
A pause. Then, with a trembling breath, she added, “I’ve thought about quitting. About trying something else. Painting, maybe. Or writing. Something no one else picked for me. But I’m terrified.”
Sergio looked at her, really looked at her — no longer the glamorous actress, but a woman trapped in a beautiful cage of expectations.
“What scares you?” he asked.
She swallowed. “What if I’m only good at what I was told to be good at? What if I try something new… and I fail? What if all of this — the success, the fame — is the only thing I’ll ever be good at?”
He set his coffee down and stood slowly, moving closer. Then he crouched in front of her, resting his arms gently on her knees so their eyes were level.
“Candice,” he said softly, “failing doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.”
She blinked, a tear slipping down her cheek before she could stop it. “But real doesn’t pay the bills. Real doesn’t get you applauded. Real doesn’t make your parents proud.”
“No,” Sergio agreed, “but real lets you sleep at night. And live with yourself.”
Candice looked at him, heart pounding. No one had ever said that to her. Not the way he did. Like it was allowed. Like it was okay.
“What if I don’t know how to be anyone else?”
He gave a gentle smile. “Then start small. Be Candice without the heels. Without the script. Without the perfection.”
She laughed through her tears. “That sounds terrifying.”
“It is,” he said. “But it’s also freedom.”
Her hand reached out and rested lightly on his shoulder — not for comfort, not for drama, just to be close to something steady. Something honest.
And Sergio? He let it stay.
For now, there were no stage lights. No cameras. No bodyguards or ballerinas.
Just two broken people, quietly becoming whole again — side by side.
- Writer
